“Then why was my mother holding her?”
“Because Marianne was seventeen.”
My irritation vanished.
Lucas’s voice softened.
“She had hidden the pregnancy from almost everyone. Her parents were extremely strict. When she gave birth, she planned to place the baby for adoption.”
I looked again at the newborn.
The yellow blanket.
My mother’s careful arms.
“Mom was helping her?”
“Yes.”
That sounded like my mother too.
Which was the difficult thing.
People were never one thing.
She could intercept letters and break two young hearts.
She could also spend six months sitting beside frightened teenage mothers who had no one else.
“Marianne said your mother was the only adult who treated her kindly.”
I looked down.
For the first time since arriving, my anger became tangled with grief.
I remembered my mother at seventy.
Smaller then.
Moving slowly through our kitchen.
Asking whether I wanted tea.
There had been so much I hadn’t known about her.
